


And Then My Soul Found Yours

by FayerieQueen (MarriedHeathens)



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: A collection of ficlets with each of the IPRE members finding their soul mates, Ficlet Collection, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Soul Mate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-25 19:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15647547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarriedHeathens/pseuds/FayerieQueen
Summary: Everyone has a soul mate.It’s not something that needs to be said, simply because it’s always there. Marks on the skin, ugly black mars that only shimmer when you’ve found your other half.  Not all are romantic. In fact, most are platonic; a person to be there even when life has fallen to pieces around you. A soul so perfectly split it aches to be without its other half. Some only have one soulmate; most have two or three.But to have six is unheard of.





	1. Lucretia & Magnus

Everyone has a soul mate.

It’s not something that needs to be said, simply because it’s always there. Marks on the skin, ugly black mars that only shimmer when you’ve found your other half. Some only have one; most have two, or three. Not all are romantic. In fact, most are platonic; a person to be there even when life has fallen to pieces around you. A soul so perfectly split it _aches_ to be without its other half.

Lucretia Greenfell is one of the oddballs. She doesn’t just have one or two or even three black marks on her skin. No. In fact, when Mariah holds her daughter for the first time, she counts _seven_ patches, and only one lights up— a lovely green, the shade of fresh grass— when she presses a kiss to her daughter’s forehead.

* * *

It takes until she’s five for the first of these black marks to light up.

Five years old, and already in her third year of school. She’s the smallest in the class by far, and certainly the youngest. She’s also the smartest, and those in the class don’t hesitate to let their displeasure show. By the time she’s through the first quarter, she’s learned to take the fastest route home, to leap over fences and climb up trees. Anything to avoid the kids nipping at her heels. She may not have been the fastest or strongest in the class, but she is the cleverest.

By the the halfway mark, she knows they’re planning something. She can tell in the way they look at her, the way they whisper as she walks by. They've been getting braver, shoving her between classes, calling her names when they teachers weren't looking. She never reacts, except when they actually hurt her. She doesn't give them the satisfaction of knowing how much their teasing and bullying hurts. She's too strong for that.

The bell rings, signaling the beginning of Winter Holidays, and Lucretia stands before the teacher has finished his lecture. She receives a look for her impatience, but no reprimanding comes. That’s enough for her.

She gathers her things quickly, stacking her books. But by the time she reaches the cubbies, her backpack is already gone. It only takes a moment for her to look from the empty cubby to the gathered group behind her, and then to the boy just a few feet away. Looming before her, arms crossed over his chest, stands one of the biggest in the class. Magnus Burnsides, known for his strength and temper. He has his backpack over one shoulder, and hers on the other. Her stomach falls.

“Which way?” He asks, and gives a pointed look over her shoulder. She doesn’t have to follow his gaze to know what he’s looking at. “We need to get going.”

Her cheeks flush as the pieces click into place. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

He offers out his hand, “I’m not taking no for an answer, Lucretia.”

She doesn't bother to ask how he knows her name; by this point, her reputation proceeds her. Part of her wants to ask _why_ ; why risk his neck for her? He already has a bad reputation as it is. But offering to take her home? It would only get him in any more trouble. Still, she doesn't want to worry her mother. So Lucretia gives an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes, but takes the offered hand. One quick glance over her shoulder tells her, yes, she was right. And, yes, perhaps she does need his protection. But she won’t tell him that. Instead, she sticks her tongue out at the gathered boys and allows Magnus to lead her from the classroom.

“They’re not going to be happy,” she says, once they’ve reached the dirt road. He still hasn't returned her backpack. “You’re gunna be in big trouble.”

He shrugs and releases her hand. “They’re never happy with me. ‘Sides, if I can help someone else out, what does it matter what happens to me?”

“It matters to me, idiot.” She rolls her eyes again. Boys are so dumb. “You don’t need to get yourself hurt for me. I can outrun any of ‘em.”

Magnus pauses, losing his step with her, and has to jog to catch back up. She can see something blooming in his eyes, something that frightens her, though she would never admit it. Not to him, and not to those who stalk them. “You sayin’ they’ve done something to you before?”

Stepping back, Lucretia holds up her hands, palms out, almost defensively. “I’m just saying you don’t have to— _hey_! Let me go!”

“Hush.” He’s got her wrist between his fingers; gentle, but commanding. Those bushy brown brows furrow, and for a moment he simply stares at her palm. Then, slowly, lifts his own hand, glancing it over. “Huh.”

“Huh?”

“Huh.”

Wrenching her hand free, Lucretia takes his in hers, and feels her stomach lurch when she sees a smear of color on his palm, moving along his skin until it tapers off near the back of his fingers. A perfect replica of her own little hand, painted in a shimmering silver-blue. It only takes a glance at her palm to realize they match, with the only difference being hers is a beautiful sunflower yellow, complete with flecks of orange.

The two stand for a moment in silence, simply staring at each other, before Magnus laughs. It’s loud, booming, not the sort Lucretia is used to hearing.

And yet still it fills her heart with such _warmth_.


	2. Davenport & Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cap'n'port? Magnus? An average meeting with perhaps an above-average candidate.

Davenport learns after that first interview to  _ always _ wear gloves. 

Magnus Burnsides, a kid of no more than nineteen, sits in his office, grinning wide. Of all the people Davenport had chosen to make it to the first round of interviews, Magnus wasn't exactly... what Davenport had expected. He’s big, perfect the Chief of Security position he sought, but there is more there. He has a sense of bewilderment and naivety about him. A sense of excitement for the days ahead, should he be chosen. It’s not a bad thing on its own, Davenport considers, but it could get them into some sticky situations, should it come to a point where difficult decisions had to be made. 

“Well, you certainly have a good grasp on the mission,” the Captain finally murmurs, glancing up from his files. Magnus seems to lean forward at the acknowledgement, and Davenport swears he’s never seen a grown man with such wondrous eyes. For a brief moment, he's reminded of a dog, excitable and loud. “You know what is expected of you, should you be accepted. But, I must ask, I have-- I have  _ one more _ question.”

Magnus straightens, squaring his shoulders, and the excitement fades away. Now  _there_ is a Chief of Security. 

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you think you bring to our crew that others in your position can’t?”

“Can’t?” He parrots, and glances down at his hands, studying the blue and black palms, “Or won’t?”

His mustache twitches as Davenport struggles to hide a smile. “Whichever you feel, Mr. Burnsides.”

Magnus seems to relax a bit, smiling himself. Hands clasped in his lap, he takes a deep breath and begins, “I’m not going to say I’ve faced worse than others have, sir, but I have certainly faced my own trials. In my youth, I was, uh-- I-- I fought a lot. I'm sure you read that in my file. I was-- I was known for fighting. But I never once fought for myself, and I never started fights. I fought for  _ others _ , sir. I learned to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I found strength in myself to take for others what they could not. I’m not the smartest or the strongest man out there, Captain, but I know I am willing to do what _needs to be done_ for our crew. I can’t promise you others would do the same.” He pauses for a moment, then, quietly, “That’s, uh-- That’s it, sir.”

Davenport has to glance at the papers in his hands to keep from showing his smile. “Not the response I typically receive for that question, Mr. Burnsides.”

“Oh. Oh, I see, I--”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Placing the papers aside, he stands, offering out his hand, “In fact, I think it just might be what this crew needs. Congratulations--”

Magnus practically leaps to his feet, taking just one of Davenport’s hands in both of his and squeezing, shaking it with all the enthusiasm he can muster.  _ You’ve only made it past round one! _ he tries to say, but can’t quite force himself to shatter the boy’s heart just yet.  Instead, he waits for the other to calm, and then explains. There’s a moment where the two simply talk, discussing the next steps, and Magnus never once releases his hand. It's more than a little awkward, actually. But then the boy is gone, nearly skipping out the door in joy. 

With a sigh, Davenport slumps back into his chair. He takes a moment to look at his hand, to make sure there aren’t any bruises, and  _ freezes _ .

Nearly the entirety of his right hand has turned a warm yellow.


	3. Barry & Lucretia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two nerds, chillin' over breakfast! Five feet apart because they're both gay.

As soon as he’s on the ship, Sildar Hallwinter changes his name.

It’s a spur of the moment decision, and he hates himself as soon as he signs the papers. He loves himself the next morning as, over breakfast, Lucretia calls him “Barry.”

It’s easier than Sildar, much more _him_. Perhaps not as professional or as… _adventurous_ as his birth name, but it’s better. Simpler. Easier. Between Lup, Taako, Magnus, Barry _fits_. Barry feels right. Barry feels more at home among his team, his new family.

“You don’t think it’s dumb?” he asks for what is probably the fifteenth time that cycle. Lucretia doesn’t even look up from her breakfast, a shake Taako made to help them all get proper nutrients even on the worst cycles. “Lucy—”

“Of course I don’t think it’s dumb.” She places her mug aside, crosses her arms over the counter to support her weight. There’s a smile on her face, one that reaches her eyes; a rare treat in Cycle Five. “I think… I think names are important, to all of us. Some of the ones we’re given we stick with. Some of our names fit us. Others— others don’t. I mean, think about it, Barry. What do our parents know? We’re only _babies_ when we get these stupid titles we’re supposed to stick with.”

“You know, you _almost_ went poetic.”

She throws a spoon at him. “It’s too early for poetry. You wanted my opinion, Barold, you got it.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says through laughter. She grins back at him, though it’s quickly hidden by the cat-shaped mug. “Knowitall.”

“Ass.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. The sun isn’t even up yet on this planet, and Barry has a feeling no one else is awake. It’s been a hard cycle, with plenty of danger to go around, but a good one. They’ve found the Light. They’ve all managed to stay alive. It’s a breath of fresh air against what they’ve already endured.

“You think we’ll ever manage to escape it? This— this…”

“Hunger?” Lucretia supplies, and he nods. Her smile falls into a thoughtful frown. Once more the mug is placed aside, and he can see it’s not even half empty. “I don’t know. I want to say yes. I want to say everything will work out. But I— I’ve written enough biographies to know that sometimes that’s not just how it is.”

“But we’re not living in a biography, Luce.” His hands are shaking, and he curses himself for this moment of weakness. He grabs a mug, pouring himself a cup of the berry-flavored slush, and downs it in a single breath. Anything to keep his nerves together, to give him a moment to gather his thoughts. She sits patiently, reading over the papers Taako had found planetside. “We’re not some stuffy old humans looking to conquer planet after planet, or… or spread ourselves throughout the galaxies. We're not conquerors, we're...”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re living in reality.” There’s a sadness in her voice, one that tears into his soul. She places the papers aside, rubs a hand over her face. For a second, he wonders if the yellow on her palm will stain her face, and feels a twinge of disappointment when it doesn't “I hope we’ll win. We have to win. But I don’t know if we can.”

He stands, taking his mug and placing it into the sink. A quick look from Lucretia tells him what he needs, and he takes hers, as well. Once they’re given a cursory wash, he turns back to her, smiles, and bumps his elbow against hers.

“We will.”

Ten minutes later, he’ll realize what happened. Elbow against elbow, the first skin to skin contact they’d ever shared. He’ll see the shimmering blue on his skin, feel his breath catch in his throat. Another black splotch brightened by those he'd met. Barry doesn’t need to see her skin to know it’s the same, only in a dark shade of navy blue.


	4. Davenport & Merle

“Merle, this isn’t a good, a good idea.”

“Oh, stop your worryin’, Dav!” Despite his protests, Merle doesn’t release the gnome’s gloved hand. “Kids are all asleep; they ain’t gunna bother us. ‘Sides, you got the world on your shoulders. Don’t you think it’s time you take a day— or, uh, night— for yourself?”

“That’s irresponsible.”

“That’s what makes it _fun_ ,” the dwarf laughs, and Davenport hates the way his stomach flutters in response. He tugs on Davenport’s hand, pulling them deeper into the hull of the ship. “Like I said, Dav, you’ve been workin’ your ass off lately. I think it’s about time you take a moment and just _enjoy life_.”

He wants to argue, but Merle’s smile, the brightening of his eyes, the way he laughs-- it all puts Davenport at ease. He lets himself be led away from the bridge and into the back rooms, where he’s surprised to see a little table waiting for him. There’s not much there-- two wine glasses, some of Taako’s leftover cake-- but it’s enough. He takes a seat across the table from Merle, and the Dwarf quickly pours them both a glass. Strawberry wine, he realizes; Lucretia’s favorite.

“Did they plan this?”

“Huh?” Merle looks up from his own glass, then shakes his head. “No, no. ‘Course not, Dav! I just asked for some advice on gettin’ a grumpy old man to relax, and they offered it. No details given.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Cross my heart!”

He doesn’t reply immediately, simply stares Merle down over the rim of his wine glass. For a moment, neither speaks; instead, they take a moment to enjoy the silence, the cake, and Merle’s wine of choice. A moment of peace in this hellscape.

They talk for hours. At first, it’s nothing more than business; speaking of the crew, the Light, these never ending cycles. But then it shifts, until Davenport finds himself discussing his rise through the Navy, and then his determination to join the IPRE. Merle counters with a story of his own; of his childhood, spent in nature, communing with Pan, and occasionally making contact with other deities as well. A real man of the cloth, Davenport thinks, even if his methods are unusual.

“I had a good time,” he murmurs, hating the way his voice slurs just slightly, _just enough_ , as they make their way back down the hall.

Merle just grins over at him, and Davenport hates the way his heart skips a beat. He hates it even more when the dwarf simply says, “Told’ja so. Ya gotta learn to trust me, Dav. Trust all of us; sometimes we happen to know what’s up.”

“I do.”

Merle pauses, but doesn’t release Davenport’s hand. For a moment, he simply stares at the gnome, an eyebrow arched. Then a smile curves his lips. He shakes his head. “Nah, man. You gotta… you gotta _really_ trust us. It’s been fifteen years, Dav. We’ve all grown a lot, y’know?” He reaches up, to place a hand against the gnome’s cheek. “Trust us, Dav. Trust me.”

He’s quiet for a moment before, “I do.”

When Davenport wakes up the next morning, he already knows what is waiting for him. He’s long come to expect it by now; it’s one of the reasons he’s always in his coat, always wearing gloves. But despite his precaution, there’s still a glowing green handprint resting gently on his cheek. Merle, undoubtedly, shares its burnt orange match in the center of his palm. Priority One: Find a way to hide this. Priority Two: Kick Merle's ass.

“This ship is a fucking nightmare.”


End file.
